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    Nora Webster: A Novel
    Nora Webster: A Novel
    Nora Webster: A Novel
    Ebook437 pages7 hours

    Nora Webster: A Novel

    By Colm Tóibín

    4/5

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    About this ebook

    From one of contemporary literature’s bestselling, critically acclaimed, and beloved authors: a “luminous” novel (Jennifer Egan, The New York Times Book Review) about a fiercely compelling young widow navigating grief, fear, and longing, and finding her own voice—“heartrendingly transcendant” (The New York Times, Janet Maslin).

    Set in Wexford, Ireland, Colm Tóibín’s magnificent seventh novel introduces the formidable, memorable, and deeply moving Nora Webster. Widowed at forty, with four children and not enough money, Nora has lost the love of her life, Maurice, the man who rescued her from the stifling world to which she was born. And now she fears she may be sucked back into it. Wounded, selfish, strong-willed, clinging to secrecy in a tiny community where everyone knows your business, Nora is drowning in her own sorrow and blind to the suffering of her young sons, who have lost their father. Yet she has moments of stunning insight and empathy, and when she begins to sing again, after decades, she finds solace, engagement, a haven—herself.

    Nora Webster “may actually be a perfect work of fiction” (Los Angeles Times), by a “beautiful and daring” writer (The New York Times Book Review) at the zenith of his career, able to “sneak up on readers and capture their imaginations” (USA TODAY). “Miraculous...Tóibín portrays Nora with tremendous sympathy and understanding” (Ron Charles, The Washington Post).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherScribner
    Release dateOct 7, 2014
    ISBN9781439149850
    Author

    Colm Tóibín

    Colm Tóibín was born in Ireland in 1955. He is the author of eleven novels, including The Master, Brooklyn, and The Magician, and two collections of stories. He has been three times shortlisted for the Booker Prize. In 2021, he was awarded the David Cohen Prize for Literature. Tóibín was appointed the Laureate for Irish Fiction 2022-2024.

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    Reviews for Nora Webster

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    • 4/5
      I can't separate the book from the knowledge that any of the characters could have been my grandmother's neighbors or relatives, my great-uncle and his children still living in town or their cousin running her hotel in Rosslare. A funny little glimpse into what her life might have been like had she not moved away in the 50s.
    • 3/5
      Nora Webster is recently widowed. Unmoored by her sudden loss and the needs of her children whom she now must raise alone, she faces a future a future that was never meant to be. Introspective novel.
    • 4/5
      I really didn't like Nora for most of this book, and while I could tolerate her by the end of the book, her character and I would probably still not get along. She is very strong-willed, but without any substance to her besides stubbornness. She's also very conservative and timid where change is concerned, always mostly concerned with how her neighbors and family will react, as if she has no preferences or interests of her own. She does improve slightly over the course of the book, and her transformation after her husband's death is part of the point of this novel. I liked how the author treats grief and the ways a family moves on after losing a parent.
      This novel is set in a small town in Ireland in the late 60's and early 70's, and I enjoyed this setting a lot. While this story is set away from the violence going on in Derry, Belfast and Dublin during this era, these events are always present on the periphery, as a tinge of unrest that colors the lives of everyone going on with daily life even in the rather out-of-touch community where much of this story happens.
      My favorite aspect of this book was the details about what life was like for people in small non-urban communities as TV and other forms of modern media were still becoming established in the cities. As someone who is used to having millions of music tracks available instantly online, it is interesting to imagine living when a few records on a record player was a luxury, and a novelty, something friends would get together to share as if playing a few records constituted a 'recital'. I put on a playlist of classical music on spotify while I read this book, so I could listen to the pieces referenced in the story, a convenience inconceivable to Nora and her friends.
      One of the boys in this book goes to great lengths to watch the moon landing, and to take photographs of the TV screen as this event was happening. If I want to I can google the moon landing and watch recorded footage of it right now (but I've already seen it a few times, so it's hardly exciting). I could also take screenshots of the video if I wanted to, or download the scans of the images NASA recorded of the mood landing, and print them out if I wanted them on my wall. None of this would be within the scope of experience or imagination of the characters in this book. It is easy to see, through the characters in this book, how huge a cultural divide there is between my generation and the ones who were adults in the 60's, especially in more remote areas.
    • 3/5
      Normally I love Toibin's books, but I've found one to which I really never warmed. Nora Webster is a newly widowed mother who must come to terms with her new status and find her own place in the world. I never truly warmed to her character. The book focuses on her relationships with those in the community around her--her neighbors, her children, her co-workers, the schoolmaster, teachers, her voice teacher, and many others. While the writing is good and the author probably had an overarching theme with Nora's progress in the midst of her tragedy, most readers will not pick it up. I received an advance e-galley from the publisher through NetGalley with the expectation that a review would be written. Honestly, if I had not felt that obligation, I probably would have abandoned the book. It simply didn't work for me. I do think that many others will appreciate the book more than I did. The quality of the writing pushes it to a higher star level than I might otherwise give it.
    • 4/5
      His books end so abruptly and without resolution of a kind. But the character development is great, and the sense of the town and of Nora 's life is well done
    • 3/5
      Nora Webster displays many war and glowing reviews, but I did not feel the emotion in the story. Nora is a young widow with 2 daughters in college and 2 younger sons in school. Nora's beloved Maurice had been a teacher, and his sickness and death devastated Nora. The story relays Nora's struggle to provide for her children and give all of them a normal life. The story is set in Ireland amid the problems between the Catholics and the Protestants, and the introduction of labor unions. Nora skips along taking voice lessons, buying a stereo and records, flying to Spain for a 2-week vacation, taking many vacations with her children, and redecorating her home. Nora lives well for a poor widow.
    • 2/5
      Not his best work - characters aren't that sympathetic and the ending is just bad
    • 4/5
      A gorgeous, multi-layered story that uncovers so many truths about what it means to be flawed and human. The many different points of view take some work to keep up with, but it's worth it. A deeply moving book.
    • 2/5
      Long and drawn out....not nearly as good as "Brooklyn" .
    • 4/5
      This is a very quite book and nothing really happens, but I loved it dearly. Nora is a great character and Toibin's writing and scene-setting abilities are at their peak. Couldn't put it down, but be forewarned that it is the furthest thing from plot-driven.
    • 5/5
      Colm Tóibín has been a favorite of mine since the inception of Likely Stories in the fall of 2009. He was born May 30, 1955. He is an Irish novelist, short story writer, essayist, playwright, journalist, critic, and poet. He has won dozens of awards—far too many to list here. He is currently a professor of the Humanities at Columbia University in New York, and he is a professor of creative writing at the University of Manchester. In 2017, he was appointed Chancellor of Liverpool University in 2017. Colm has written eleven novels along with scads of non-fiction (Wikipedia). Nora Webster is his tenth novel. He has a dream career for any aspiring creative writer. Ever since I immersed myself in the works of James Joyce, I have developed a fascination for Irish writers. Colm Tóibín is at the undisputed head of that list.Nora Webster is the story of a woman with four children—two young ladies away at school, Fiona and Aine, and two boys still in high school, Conor and Donal. As the story opens, Nora has been widowed in her early 40s. Maurice was the love of her life, and despite this devastating event, she organizes her finances to take care of her children through college. At first, lots of her neighbors come bearing food and offering help to the point she becomes reclusive. Tóibín writes, “Once more she noted the hectoring tone, as though she were a child, unable to make proper decisions. She had tried since the funeral to ignore this tone, or tolerate it. She had tried to understand that it was shorthand for kindness” (12). One day, she gets in the car and drives to a seaside vacation village to visit a house she and Maurice owned. Everyone tells Nora she should not make any rash decisions. When she enters the house, she realizes it has no value to her without Maurice. On a spur of the moment, she sells it to a friend, who gives her the fair market price. No one takes advantage of her. Tóibín writes, “‘Well, there are a lot of people who are very fond of you” (13). The children are disappointed, but they accept Nora’s decision.Nora pays a visit to Fiona at school, and they walk to the train. Colm writes, “As they looked at one another, Nora felt Fiona was hostile, and forced herself to remember how upset she must be, and how lonely she might be too. She smiled as she said that they would have to go and in return Fiona smiled at her and the boys. As soon as Nora walked away, however, she felt helpless and regretted not having said something kind or special, or consoling to Fiona before they left her; maybe even something as simple as asking her when she was coming down next, or emphasizing how much they looked forward to seeing her soon. She wished she had a phone in the house so she could keep in more regular touch with her. She thought that she might write Fiona a note in the morning thanking her for coming to meet them” (29). Nora is as empathetic and kind as anyone could be. The biggest problem Nora faces is dealing with her oldest son, Donal. He stutters and slowly bonds with one of Nora’s sisters. Margaret is fond of the boy, and when he develops a fascination for photography, she builds a darkroom in her home. Tóibín’s Nora Webster is the story of a wise, warm, empathetic, strong woman, who, when forced to take the reins of the family, does so with determination. This story can be enjoyed by all ages. 5 stars.--Jim, 6/10/17
    • 4/5
      The eponymous protagonist of this book, set in southeastern Ireland, is a 40-year-old widow left with four children: “the problem for her was that she was on her own now and that she had no idea how to live.” We see her over three years (1969 – 1972) as she grieves and rebuilds her life.As the publisher’s description indicates, this novel is a character study. Nora emerges as a real person, both likeable and unlikeable at the same time. At times she seems very self-centered, critical of others, and even lazy, but at other times we can only admire her feistiness as she stands up to her boss and her elder son’s principal. Watching her find her voice (both literally and figuratively) and realize a sense of freedom is almost mesmerizing. Music makes her realize that she is not alone in suffering; a melody tells her that “someone had suffered, and moved away from suffering and then come back to it, let it linger and live within them” – a good description of her own journey.This book also examines relationships. We see Nora’s relationship with her two sisters and her brother- and sister-in-law. It is, however, her relationship with her children, especially the two boys, which caught my attention and which I tried to understand. In many ways Nora is disconnected from her children. “She had trained herself not to ask any of the children too many questions” so it is not surprising that she learns about their lives only when others visit and spend an evening with them: “By the time the evening was over Nora felt that she knew more details about the lives of her children than she had found out in months.” She seldom shows her emotions: “She measured her success with the boys by how much she could control her feelings.” At times I could not help but feel that she should have pried some more and expressed her grief more openly. Some of her decisions regarding her sons are certainly questionable; for example, she left her sons with an aunt for two months when her husband was dying and never once visited them. She does nothing to address a stutter one of her sons develops. Nonetheless, what is most striking is how realistic her behaviour is; much of it stems from having been raised by an overbearing mother. And what parent does not make a mistake or “a series of misjudgments,” especially when under emotional duress.The claustrophobic atmosphere of a small town is conveyed very convincingly. Having grown up in a small town in the time period depicted, I could identify with Nora’s predicament. Everyone knows what is happening in her life, and people tend to be censorious. Her decisions are often parenthesized by her concern about what people will think; even the joy of purchasing a record player has to be weighed against the opinions of others. Of course, it is the people of this community who give her support in unexpected ways.There are unanswered questions which I found somewhat annoying. Something seems to have happened when her sons stayed with Aunt Josie, but we are left to guess. Was it only her absence that affected her boys so much that even a visit from Aunt Josie leaves them uncomfortable? One of her sons mentions hating the Christian Brothers and I could only think of the child abuse charges against the Congregation. Who is “the other one” that Maurice mentions in his appearance? Why exactly are her sisters afraid of Nora?I am amazed at Tóibín’s ability to depict the inner life of women. Though I was not as impressed as I was by his Mary in The Testament of Mary, this portrayal of an ordinary woman’s struggles with life’s vicissitudes is worth reading.Note: I received an ARC of this book from the publisher via NetGalley.
    • 3/5
      From the review in The Guardian: "Nothing could be plainer than this prose, whose plainness is familiar from the rest of Toíbín's writing. Someone said to me once – not uncritically – that reading Toíbín was like drinking a glass of water. ... The whole novel is done like this, step by chronological step, from inside Nora's consciousness, following where she goes, knowing what she knows and nothing else. ... In less sure hands, these simplicities – one thing after another, after another – could become banal; ordinary life seems banal until it has gone, then it becomes the past and has extraordinary power to move us."

      All true except for the last part, it just doesn't work for me, I cannot really relate to Nora, knowing hardly anything about her past, her youth. Only on the last pages there is a twist and a hint of an affair, of child abuse?
    • 3/5
      I bought this book after I read an interview with the author. His style is sparse and matter of fact. In the end of the novel I had an impression of Nora Webster, the main personage in the novel that convinced me.
    • 4/5
      Nora Webster is the story of a young 44ish widow who finds herself grieving the loss of the love of her life, Maurice. Nora relied on Maurice for most everything and feels lost without him , finds herself at a loss trying to care for her 4 children , 17 year old Fiona, and the younger siblings, Aine, Donal and Connor. Nora lives in a small town in Ireland , in the 1960's. In the background there are reference to " The Troubles' in Northern Ireland, but this is a much lesser part of the story. Nora Webster is slow moving , beautifully written story of woman slowly putting her life back together after the death of her husband. Nora is a very private person and somewhat resents the intrusiveness of living in a small town. Gradually she rebuilds her life through the need to find work to support her family, finding an unexpected love of music, and navigating the raising 4 children.A quiet, slow , insightful novel that records the everyday intricacies of life, Nora Webster is a beautiful read.
    • 3/5
      I'm not sure that Toibin's style suits me entirely, but nonetheless, there was much in this novel to keep me interested. In particular, the response to the death of a significant person (and the reaction of the community) is a topic that interests me, and I think I learnt something from "Nora Webster" in relation to this. Perhaps more interesting were Nora's on-going relationships with her siblings and, (of most interest to me) Nora's relationships with her chilldren. Toibin's not going to get onto my "favourites" list, but he's probably on the next level down.
    • 5/5
      NORA WEBSTER is a book to savor, but alas, I raced through it; I devoured it. The story of this young widow with four children is perhaps one of the most affecting stories I have read in years. It also gives you a small, inside look at "the Troubles" in Ireland in the late sixties and early seventies, with its allusions to the riots and shootings in Derry and Belfast. And the moon landing coverage on TV sets it early on firmly in 1969, which made me remember my own life from that time - in graduate school, married with a new baby. At the same time Toibin's Nora was struggling with the death of her husband and all the grief and confused feelings that followed, not to mention wondering how she would manage financially with her four children. Bottom line: the real subject here is the interior life of a woman who seems as real as a relative or neighbor. Nora Webster is a character that will linger long in my consciousness. A character to savor. I hated to see this book end. Toibin is an incredibly gifted writer. Very highly recommended.
    • 5/5
      The reader is immersed in small town Ireland in the late 1960s and, in Colm Toibin's brilliant hands, it's like languishing in a hot bath. This is masterful writing. The moon landing is on the television and the Troubles are rumbling away but never dominate the day to day struggle of Norah Webster to recover from the death of her husband and come to terms with a new life on her own with her two young sons. Nothing very dramatic happens although occasionally it feels like it is about to (a possible revelation about her aunt maltreating her sons when she was left looking after them, Norah's daughter going missing after the attack on the British embassy in Dublin). But it's the smaller, every day events that dominate and illuminate Norah's struggle to find a new independent life - the trip to the hairdressers to have her hair dyed, joining the local gramaphone society, taking singing lessons.
      The most powerful element of the novel is the character of Norah herself. Beautifully nuanced in that she is never completely likeable (especially in her uncomfortable relationship with her sons) and yet we are eager for her to succeed. We know she will succeed but it will be a long and often painful struggle. It's the feistiness that she summons up on occasion (notably her battle to stop her son being demoted to a lower class in school) that shows her at her most sympathetic.
    • 5/5
      An Irish widow's lament and recovery should be a simple process to Nora's permanently nosy Wexford neighbors and family. But in reality, her life is a jumble of internal quakes and painful remembrances. Nora has four kids and a horrible job, and the Troubles are starting in Northern Ireland. Nora also has a beautiful singing voice and enough money to buy a record player so she can hold her head high at the Gramophone Club. Three years pass as if the reader has had a seat at the kitchen table for some tea. Here are unsolved mysteries and unknown knowns, and fine writing.
    • 3/5
      This is my second Colm Toibin read. Like the other book, I loved 'Nora Webster' for the lyrical sense of place and character. Few writers can so beautifully capture atmosphere as Toibin. A story of a young Irish widow struggling to mother her young children while coping with finances, grief and finding her way in the world by herself -- has strong resonance for me. Even so, the book dragged just a bit for me. For those looking for a fast paced or event filled tale, look elsewhere. I will be searching out more by this author in the future.
    • 3/5
      I entirely agree with the review by thornton37814 below. I loved Colm Toibin's previous books but was really disappointed in this one. I could not warm to the character of Nora at all. I only finished the book because we will be discussing it at our Reading Group.
    • 4/5
      Another gentle story that captures the emotions of a new widow in a small Irish town. Toibin has an art of making everyday people important. Enter pieces for a story. And in this one it was delightful to see a quiet woman come into h own, worrying less about what others thought of he and more about what she wanted.
    • 4/5
      Maurice Webster dies, leaving his wife and children. The boys are clearly traumatised by their fathers dying and death. This is the story of how the family starts to find a new way of life without him.Whilst this was an enjoyable story, meandering around the three years of Nora's life after Maurice died, I'm not sure it got anywhere.
    • 4/5
      Lovely, sad, true. This is not a book for anyone looking for car chases or brushes with superpowers. There is very little external action. This is about moving on from grief, and about redefining oneself after the person (or people) who define us are gone, for one reason or another. This is about the dangers of timidity. And it is about how others can only grow when we stop limiting them with our own definitions and sometimes with our own love. This story seems so personal and so loving but there are also big themes. A very worthwhile read for those who enjoy very slow and totally character driven stories.
    • 5/5
      Book Club January 2015. Really enjoyed this portrait of grief. Not hurried yet moves along nicely. Nuanced characters who seem like people you know. Interesting how an ordinary family and its interactions can be so fascinating.
    • 5/5
      I love his writing. After the first chapter I was a little afraid the whole book would be depressing, about this lonely sort of prickly woman who had just lost her husband, but her gradual development of a life on her own was just lovely to read. And her personality emerged just as gradually. Prickly as she was, I came to understand her, feel for her, and like her.
    • 3/5
      The Irish comes through like a soft sip of Jameson's. Nora is both sad and strong; indecisive and indomitable.
    • 5/5
      Although I own the e-book, I devoured about 80% of this one in audio. I loved the dulcet tones of Fiona Shaw's narration. It was perfect to tell the beautifully written story of Nora Webster, widowed at age 40, who had 2 grown daughters, and two pre-teen sons at the time her beloved Maurice died a painful premature death. Toibin skillfully lets us into the terror she faces as she balances a precarious budget, learns to live a lonelier life, and eventually comes to terms with her change in status and opportunities. A truly elegant story, one worth reading in any format.
    • 4/5
      I liked this book and I cared about Nora. She is not a perfect person - in particular she was not a perfect 'widow'. At times she was very selfish, self centered and certainly not always likable. She often acts out on her anger and people around her are hurt because of it. All of this seemed very normal and made me care about her. This is not a fast moving, plot centered story but it kept my interest all the way though it.
    • 4/5
      I wasn't crazy about Toibin's Brooklyn, but decided to give him another try with this one. It's well-written, but I still came away with the feeling that Toibin doesn't really understand women and that Nora, the main character, simply didn't seem real.

    Book preview

    Nora Webster - Colm Tóibín

    CHAPTER ONE

    You must be fed up of them. Will they never stop coming? Tom O’Connor, her neighbour, stood at his front door and looked at her, waiting for a response.

    I know, she said.

    Just don’t answer the door. That’s what I’d do.

    Nora closed the garden gate.

    They mean well. People mean well, she said.

    Night after night, he said. I don’t know how you put up with it.

    She wondered if she could get back into the house without having to answer him again. He was using a new tone with her, a tone he would never have tried before. He was speaking as though he had some authority over her.

    People mean well, she said again, but saying it this time made her feel sad, made her bite her lip to keep the tears back. When she caught Tom O’Connor’s eye, she knew that she must have appeared put down, defeated. She went into the house.

    That night a knock came at almost eight o’clock. There was a fire lighting in the back room and the two boys were doing their homework at the table.

    You answer it, Donal said to Conor.

    No, you do.

    One of you answer it, she said.

    Conor, the younger one, went out to the hall. She could hear a voice when he opened the door, a woman’s voice, but not one that she recognised. Conor ushered the visitor into the front room.

    It’s the little woman who lives in Court Street, he whispered to her when he came into the back room.

    Which little woman? she asked.

    I don’t know.

    May Lacey shook her head sadly when Nora came into the front room.

    Nora, I waited until now. I can’t tell you how sorry I am about Maurice.

    She reached out and held Nora’s hand.

    And he was so young. I knew him when he was a little boy. We knew them all in Friary Street.

    Take off your coat and come into the back room, Nora said. The boys are doing their exercise, but they can move in here and turn on the electric fire. They’ll be going to bed soon anyway.

    May Lacey, wisps of thin grey hair appearing from under her hat, her scarf still around her neck, sat opposite Nora in the back room and began to talk. After a while, the boys went upstairs; Conor, when Nora called him, was too shy to come down and say good night, but soon Donal came and sat in the room with them, carefully studying May Lacey, saying nothing.

    It was clear now that no one else would call. Nora was relieved that she would not have to entertain people who did not know each other, or people who did not like each other.

    So anyway, May Lacey went on, Tony was in the hospital bed in Brooklyn, and didn’t this man arrive into the bed beside his, and they got talking, and Tony knew he was Irish, and he told him his wife was from the County Wexford.

    She stopped and pursed her lips, as though she was trying to remember something. Suddenly, she began to imitate a man’s voice: Oh, and that’s where I’m from, the man said, and then Tony said she was from Enniscorthy, oh and that’s where I’m from too, the man said. And he asked Tony what part of Enniscorthy she was from, and Tony said she was from Friary Street.

    May Lacey kept her eyes fixed on Nora’s face, forcing her to express interest and surprise.

    And the man said that’s where I’m from too. Isn’t that extraordinary!

    She stopped, waiting for a reply.

    And he told Tony that before he left the town he made that iron thing—what would you call it?—a grille or a guard on the windowsill there at Gerry Crane’s. And I went down to look at it and it’s there all right. Gerry didn’t know how it got there or when. But the man beside Tony in the bed in Brooklyn, he said that he made it, he was a welder. Isn’t that a coincidence? To happen in Brooklyn.

    Nora made tea as Donal went to bed. She brought it into the back room on a tray with biscuits and cake. When they had fussed over the tea things, May Lacey sipped her tea and began to talk again.

    Of course, all of mine thought the world of Maurice. They always asked for him in their letters. He was friends with Jack before Jack left. And of course Maurice was a great teacher. The boys looked up to him. I always heard that said.

    Looking into the fire, Nora tried to think back, wondering if May Lacey had ever been in this house before. She thought not. She had known her all her life, like so many in the town, to greet and exchange pleasantries with, or to stop and talk to if there was news. She knew the story of her life down to her maiden name and the plot in the graveyard where she would be buried. Nora had heard her singing once at a concert, she remembered her reedy soprano—it was Home Sweet Home or Oft in the Stilly Night, one of those songs.

    She did not think that May Lacey went out much except to the shops, or to mass on Sundays.

    They were silent now, and Nora thought that maybe May would go soon.

    It’s nice of you to come up and see me, she said.

    Oh, Nora, I was very sorry for you, but I felt I’d wait, I didn’t want to be crowding in on you.

    She refused more tea, and when Nora went to the kitchen with the tray she thought that May might stand up and put on her coat, but she did not move from the chair. Nora went upstairs and checked that the boys were asleep. She smiled to herself at the thought of going to bed herself now, falling asleep and leaving May Lacey down below, staring into the fire, waiting for her in vain.

    Where are the girls? May asked as soon as Nora sat down. I never see them now, they used to pass up and down all the time.

    Aine is in school in Bunclody. She’s settling in there now, Nora said. And Fiona is doing her teacher training in Dublin.

    You’d miss them when they go away, May Lacey said. I miss them all, I do, but it’s funny, of all of them, it’s Eily I think about most, although I miss Jack too. There was something, I don’t know, I just didn’t want to lose Eily. I thought after Rose died—you know all this, Nora—that she would come home and stay and she’d find some sort of job here, and then one day when she was just back a week or two I noticed her all quiet and it wasn’t like her, and she started to cry at the table, and that’s when we heard the news that her fellow in New York wouldn’t let her come home unless she married him. And she had married him there without telling any of us. ‘Well, that’s that, Eily, then,’ I said. ‘You’ll have to go back to him, so.’ And I couldn’t face her or speak to her, and she sent me photographs of him and her together in New York, but I couldn’t look at them. They were the last thing in the world I wanted to see. But I was always sorry she didn’t stay.

    Yes, I was sorry to hear that she went back, but maybe she’s happy there, Nora said and immediately wondered, as May Lacey looked down sadly, a hurt expression on her face, if that was a wrong thing to say.

    May Lacey began to rummage in her handbag. She put on a pair of reading glasses.

    I thought I’d brought Jack’s letter but I must have left it behind, she said.

    She examined a piece of paper and then another.

    No, I haven’t got it. I wanted to show it to you. There was something he wanted to ask you.

    Nora said nothing. She had not seen Jack Lacey for more than twenty years.

    Maybe I’ll find the letter and send it to you, May said.

    She stood up to go.

    I don’t think he’s going to come home now, she said as she put on her coat. What would he do here? They have their life there in Birmingham, and they’ve invited me over and everything, but I told Jack I’d be happy to go to my reward without seeing England. I think though he’d like to have something here, a place he could visit and maybe Eily’s children or some of the others.

    Well, he has you to visit, Nora said.

    He thought you’d be selling Cush, May said, settling her scarf. She spoke as though it were nothing, but now, as she looked at Nora, her gaze was hard and concentrated and her chin began to tremble.

    He asked me if you’d be selling it, she said and closed her mouth firmly.

    I’ve made no plans, Nora said.

    May pursed her lips again. She did not move.

    I wish I’d brought the letter, she said. Jack always loved Cush and Ballyconnigar. He used to go with Maurice and the others, and he always remembered it. And it hasn’t changed much, everyone there would know him. The last time he came home he didn’t know half the people in the town.

    Nora said nothing. She wanted May to leave.

    I’ll tell him I mentioned it to you anyway. That’s all I can do.

    When Nora did not reply, May looked at her, clearly annoyed at her silence. They walked out and stood in the hall.

    Time is the great healer, Nora. That’s all I can tell you. And I can tell you that from experience.

    She sighed as Nora opened the front door.

    Thank you for calling up, May, Nora said.

    Good night now, Nora, and look after yourself.

    Nora watched her as she made her way slowly down along the footpath towards home.

    She drove to Cush in the old A40 one Saturday that October, leaving the boys playing with friends and telling no one where she was going. Her aim in those months, autumn leading to winter, was to manage for the boys’ sake and maybe her own sake too to hold back tears. Her crying as though for no reason frightened the boys and disturbed them as they gradually became used to their father not being there. She realised now that they had come to behave as if everything were normal, as if nothing were really missing. They had learned to disguise how they felt. She, in turn, had learned to recognise danger signs, thoughts that would lead to other thoughts. She measured her success with the boys by how much she could control her feelings.

    As she drove down the hill outside The Ballagh and caught her first glimpse of the sea, it occurred to her that she had never been alone before on this road. In all the years, one of the boys, or the girls when they were younger, would shout out I can see the sea just here and she would have to make them sit down and quieten.

    In Blackwater, she thought of stopping for cigarettes or chocolate or anything to postpone her arrival at Cush. But she was sure that someone she knew would see her and want to sympathize with her. The words came easily: I’m sorry or I’m sorry for your trouble. They all said the same thing, but there was no formula for replying. I know or Thank you sounded cold, almost hollow. And they would stand looking at her until she could not wait to get away from them. There was something hungry in the way they held her hand or looked into her eyes. She wondered if she had ever done this to anybody, and thought that she had not. As she turned right towards Ballyconnigar she realised that she would feel much worse if people began to avoid her. It struck her that they were probably doing so, but she had not noticed.

    The sky had darkened now and drops of rain hit the windscreen. It seemed much barer here, more wintry than the country­side on the road to Blackwater. She turned left at the ball alley for Cush and she allowed herself the brief respite of imagining that this was some time in the recent past, a dark summer’s day with a threatening sky and she had gone into Blackwater for meat and bread and a newspaper. She had thrown them lightly on the back seat, and the family were all in the house beside the marl-pond, Maurice and the children, and maybe one or two friends with them, and the children had slept late, and they would be disappointed now that the sun was not shining, but it wouldn’t stop them playing rounders or messing in front of the house or going to the strand. But if the rain was down for the day, of course, they’d stay in and play cards until the two boys would grow irritable and come to her to complain.

    She let herself imagine all of this for as long as she liked. But as soon as she caught a view of the sea and the horizon beyond the Corrigans’ roof, such imaginings were no use to her, she was back in the hard world again.

    She drove the car down the lane and unlocked the large galvanised gates. She parked in front of the house and closed the gates again so that no one could see the car. She would have loved it had one of her old friends been here, Carmel Redmond or Lily Devereux, who could talk to her sensibly not about what she had lost or how sorry they were, but about the children, money, part-time work, how to live now. They would have listened to her. But Carmel lived in Dublin and only came in the summer and just Lily came from time to time to see her mother.

    Nora sat back into the car as the wind from the sea howled around her. The house would be cold. She should have taken a heavier coat with her. She knew that wishing friends were with her or allowing herself to shiver in the car like this were ways of postponing the moment when she would have to open the door and walk into the empty house.

    And then an even fiercer whistling wind blew up and seemed as though it would lift the car. Something she had not allowed herself to think before but had known for some days now came into her mind and she made a promise to herself. She would not come here again. This was the last time she would visit this house. She would go in now and walk through these few rooms. She would take with her whatever was personal and could not be left behind, and then she would close this door and drive back to the town, and, in future, she would never take that turn at the ball alley on the road between Blackwater and Ballyconnigar.

    What surprised her was the hardness of her resolve, how easy it seemed to turn her back on what she had loved, leave this house on the lane to the cliff for others to know, for others to come to in the summer and fill with different noises. As she sat looking out at the bruised sky over the sea, she sighed. Finally, she let herself feel how much she had lost, how much she would miss. She got out of the car, steadying herself against the wind.

    The front door opened on to a tiny hall. There were two rooms on each side, the rooms on the left with bunk beds, a living room on the right with a tiny kitchen and bathroom behind it, and their room beside it, peaceful, away from the children.

    Each year in early June they came here, all of them, on a Saturday and Sunday, even if the weather was not good. They brought scrubbing brushes and mops and detergent and cloths for cleaning windows. They brought mattresses that had been well aired. It was a turning point, a mark on the calendar that meant the beginning of summer, even if summer was going to be grey and misty. The children, in the years she wanted to remember now, were noisy and excited at the start, as though they were an American family from The Donna Reed Show. They imitated American accents and gave each other instructions, but they soon grew tired and bored and she let them play or go down to the strand or walk into the village. And this was when the serious work began. When the children were out of the way, Maurice could do things like paint the woodwork, use distemper on the cement; the lino on a floor could be covered in the places where there were holes and she could patch the wallpaper where there was mould or too many stains, and for this she would need silence and concentration. She enjoyed measuring down to the last fraction of an inch, making the paste to the right consistency, and cutting up bright new patches of wallpaper in floral patterns.

    Fiona hated spiders. That was something Nora remembered now. And cleaning the house meant, more than anything, displacing spiders and beetles and clocks and all types of creepy-crawlies. The boys loved Fiona screaming, and Fiona herself enjoyed screaming too, especially as her father would protect her with elaborate gestures. Where is it? he would shout, mimicking the giant in Jack and the Beanstalk, and Fiona would run to him and hold him.

    That was the past, then, she thought as she walked into the living room, and it cannot be rescued. The smallness and coldness of the room gave her an odd satisfaction now. There was clearly a leak in the galvanised tin roof because there was a fresh stain on the ceiling. The house rattled as a gust of wind brought a hard sheet of rain against the glass. The windows would have to be repaired soon, and the wood had begun to rot. And who knew how long it would take for the cliff to be eaten away as far back as here and their house to be dismantled on the orders of the county council? Someone else could worry now. Someone else could repair the leaks and treat the walls for damp. Someone else could rewire and repaint this house, or abandon it to the elements when the time came.

    She would sell it to Jack Lacey. Nobody who lived locally would want to buy it; they knew what a bad investment it would be, compared to houses in Bentley or Curracloe or Morriscastle. No one from Dublin who saw the house in this state would make an offer for it. She looked around the room and shuddered.

    She walked into the children’s bedrooms and into their own bedroom, and she knew that for Jack Lacey in Birmingham owning this would be a dream, part of a memory of scorching hot Sundays, and boys and girls on bicycles, and bright, open possibilities. On the other hand, she imagined him coming into the house in a year or two, when he was back for a fortnight in Ireland, with the ceiling half fallen in and cobwebs everywhere and the wallpaper peeling and the windows broken and the electricity cut off. And the summer’s day all drizzly and dark.

    She looked through drawers, but there was nothing that she wanted. Only yellow newspaper and bits of twine. Even the crockery and kitchen utensils seemed not worth taking home. In the bedroom, she found some photographs and some books in a locker and she gathered these to take with her. Nothing else. The furniture was worthless, the lightshades were already dingy and worn. She remembered buying them in Woolworth’s in Wexford only a few years earlier. Everything rotted and faded in this house.

    The rain began to pour down. She took a mirror from the bedroom wall, noting how clean the space it covered had remained, compared to the discoloured, dirty wallpaper all around.

    At first she thought the knocking she heard was something banging against the door or the window in the wind. But when it persisted and she heard a voice, she realised that she had a visitor. She was surprised because she had thought that no one had noticed her approach and no one could see the car. Her first instinct was to hide, but she knew that she had already been seen.

    As she opened the latch, the front door blew in towards her. The figure outside was wearing an oversized anorak, the large hood of which was half covering the face.

    Nora, I heard the car. Are you all right?

    Once the hood was pulled down, she recognised Mrs. Darcy, whom she had not seen since the funeral. Mrs. Darcy followed her inside as she closed the door.

    Why didn’t you call in first? she asked.

    I’m just here for a few minutes, Nora said.

    Get into the car and come on up to the house. You can’t stay here.

    Once more she noted the hectoring tone, as though she were a child, unable to make proper decisions. She had tried since the funeral to ignore this tone, or tolerate it. She had tried to understand that it was shorthand for kindness.

    Just now, she would have relished taking her few possessions from the house, putting them in the car and driving out of Cush. But it could not be done, she would have to accept Mrs. Darcy’s hospitality.

    Mrs. Darcy would not get into the car with her, insisting that she was too wet. She would walk back to her house, while Nora drove, she said.

    I’ll be a few more minutes. I’ll follow you up, Nora said.

    Mrs. Darcy looked at her puzzled. Nora had tried to sound casual, but she had succeeded instead in sounding secretive.

    I just want to collect a few things to bring home, she said.

    Her visitor’s eyes lit on the books and photographs and the mirror resting against the wall, then she swiftly took in everything else in the room. And Nora felt that Mrs. Darcy understood immediately what she was doing.

    Don’t be long now, she said. I’ll have the tea ready for you.

    When Mrs. Darcy had left, Nora closed the door and went back into the house.

    It was done. In her all-embracing glance around the room, Mrs. Darcy had made it seem real. Nora would leave this house and never come back. She would never walk these lanes again and she would let herself feel no regret. It was over. She took up the few things she had collected and put them in the boot of the car.

    Mrs. Darcy’s kitchen was warm. She put fresh scones on a plate with melting butter and poured the tea.

    We were wondering how you were getting on but Bill Parle told us the night he went in that your house was full of people. Maybe we should have gone in all the same, but we thought we’d leave it until after Christmas when you might like the company more.

    There have been a lot of visitors, Nora said. But you know you’re welcome any time.

    Well, there are a lot of people who are very fond of you, Mrs. Darcy said. She took off her apron and sat down. And we were all worried about you, that you wouldn’t come down here anymore. Carmel Redmond, you know, was away when it happened and she was shocked.

    I know. She wrote to me, Nora said, and then she called in.

    So she told us, Mrs. Darcy said, and Lily was here that day and she said that we should be looking out for you. And I used to wait for that day when you’d all come down and do up the house. For me, it was the beginning of the fine weather. My heart would lift when I’d see you coming.

    I remember one year, Nora said, it was raining so hard you took pity on us and made us all come up here for our tea.

    And you know, Mrs. Darcy said, your children have the best manners. They are so well reared. Aine used to love coming to see us. All of them did, but she was the one we knew best. And Maurice used to come on a Sunday if there was a match on the wireless.

    Nora looked out at the rain. It was tempting now to mislead Mrs. Darcy, to tell her that they were going to keep coming down here, but she could not do that. And she felt that Mrs. Darcy understood her silence, had been watching for some clue, something said or left unsaid, to confirm her impression that Nora was going to sell the house.

    Now, what we decided, Mrs. Darcy said, was that next year we’d do up the house for you. I was looking at it just now, and it could do with some patching on the galvanise, and we’ll be getting that done on the barn here anyway, and so they might as well go down to you. And we’ll take turns to do the rest of it. I have a key, and we could have surprised you, but Lily said that I was to ask you, and I was going to do that after Christmas. She said it was your house, and we shouldn’t be intruding.

    Nora knew that she should tell her now, but there was something too effusive and warm in Mrs. Darcy’s tone that stopped her.

    But I thought it would be nice for you, Mrs. Darcy went on, to come down and have it all done. So don’t say anything now, but let me know if you don’t want us to do it. And I’ll hold on to the key unless you want it back.

    No. Of course not, Mrs. Darcy. I’d like you to hold on to the key.

    Maybe, she thought as she drove towards Blackwater, maybe Mrs. Darcy had presumed all along that she was going to sell the house, and realised that cleaning it up would increase its value; or maybe Mrs. Darcy had presumed nothing, maybe Nora herself was watching everyone too closely to see what they thought of her. But she knew she had behaved strangely in closing the gates when she had parked the car in front of the house, in seeming almost furtive when Mrs. Darcy called, and in not instantly accepting or turning down her offer to help with the house.

    She sighed. It had been awkward and difficult, and now it was finished. She would write to Mrs. Darcy and Lily Devereux and Carmel Redmond. Often in the past, when she made a decision like this, she changed her mind the next morning, but this time it was not like that, she would not change her mind.

    On the road back to Enniscorthy, she began to calculate. She did not know how much the house was worth. She would think of a figure and send it to Jack Lacey in a sealed envelope—she did not want to negotiate with May Lacey—and if he offered less than she asked for, she would accept it as long as it was reasonable. She did not want to have to advertise the house in the newspaper.

    The car was taxed and insured until Christmas. She had planned to give it up then, but if she sold the house, she thought, she would keep the car or buy a newer model. The house money would also pay for the black marble gravestone for Maurice that she wanted, and she would be able to rent a caravan in Curracloe for a week or two next summer. What she had left she could use for household expenses and to buy some new clothes for herself and the girls. And then keep something for an emergency.

    The house—she smiled to herself—would become like the two and sixpence a man had given Conor a few summers earlier. She could not remember which summer it was, but it was before his father was sick and it was before he really understood the value of money. Conor had given the two and sixpence to Maurice to mind for him and then all summer, every time they went to Blackwater, he drew on this money, confidently demanding a fresh instalment from his father. When they told him it was all gone, he had refused to believe them.

    She wrote to May Lacey, enclosing a letter for Jack. Within a short time, she had a letter from him agreeing to the price she had suggested. She replied with the name of a solicitor in the town who would draw up the contract of sale.

    She waited for the right moment to tell the boys about selling the house in Cush, and when she began, she was shocked at how concerned they both seemed, how attentive, as though by listening carefully they might hear something that would have a serious effect on their future. As she spoke to them about how useful the money would be, she learned that they already knew that she had planned to sell the car, although she had not told them this. They did not smile, or even appear relieved, when she said that they were going to keep the car.

    Will we still be able to go to the university? Conor asked.

    Of course, she said. What made you think about that?

    Who will pay?

    I have other money saved up for that.

    She did not want to say that maybe their uncle Jim and aunt Margaret would pay. They were Maurice’s older brother and sister who had not married and lived together in the old family house in the town. The boys remained absolutely still; they watched her intently. She went out to the kitchen and turned on the kettle and when she came back into the room, they had not moved.

    We’ll be able to go on holidays to different places, she said. We’ll be able to get a caravan in Curracloe or Rosslare. We’ve never stayed in a caravan.

    Would we be able to stay in Curracloe the same time as the Mitchells? Conor asked.

    If we like. We could find out when they’re going and go at the same time.

    Would it be for one week or two weeks? Conor asked.

    Or longer if we liked, she said.

    Are we going to b-buy a c-caravan? Donal asked.

    No, we’ll rent one. Buying one would be too much responsibility.

    Who’s going to b-buy the house? Donal asked.

    It’s very private now. If I tell you, you can’t tell anyone, but I think that May Lacey’s son is going to buy it. You know, the one who’s in England.

    Is that why she came here?

    I suppose it is, yes.

    She made tea and the boys pretended to watch the television. She had, she knew, unsettled them. Conor had become all red-faced and Donal was staring at the floor as if awaiting punishment. She picked up a newspaper and tried to read. She knew it was important to stay in the room, not to leave them, despite an urge to go upstairs and do anything, empty out cupboards, wash her face, clean the windows. Eventually, she felt she would have to say something.

    We could go to Dublin next week.

    They looked up.

    Why? Donal asked.

    For a day out, you could take a day off school, she said.

    I have d-double science on Wednesday, Donal said. I hate it, but I c-can’t miss it, and I have F-french with Madame D-duffy on Monday.

    We could go on Thursday.

    In the car?

    No, we could go on the train. And we could see Fiona, that’s her half-day.

    Do we have to go? Conor asked.

    No. We’ll only go if we like, she said.

    What will we tell the school?

    I’ll send in a note saying that you have to go to the doctor.

    I d-don’t need a note if it’s j-just one day, Donal said.

    We’ll go then. We’ll have a nice day out. I’ll write to Fiona.

    She had said it to break the silence and to let them know that there would always be outings, things to look forward to. But it made no difference to them. The news that she was selling the house in Cush seemed to bring home something that they had been managing not to think about. In the days that followed, however, they brightened up again, as though nothing had been said.

    For the trip to Dublin she laid their good clothes out for them the night before and made them polish their shoes and leave them on the landing. When she tried to make them go to bed early, they protested that there was something they wanted to watch on the television, and she allowed them to stay up late. Even then, they did not want to go to bed, and when she insisted, they went back and forth to the bathroom and they kept turning on and off the light in their room.

    Finally, she went upstairs and found them fast asleep, the bedroom door wide open, their beds tossed. She tried to make them more comfortable, but when Conor began to wake she withdrew, quietly closing the door.

    In the morning, they were up and dressed before she was. They brought her tea, which was too strong, and toast. When she got up, she managed to throw the tea down the sink in the bathroom without them noticing.

    It was cold. They would drive to the station, she told them, and leave the car in the Railway Square. It would be handy when they came home that night, she said. They both nodded gravely. They already had their coats on.

    The town was almost empty as she drove to the station. It was half dark and some lights in houses were still on.

    Which side of the train will we sit on? Conor asked when they got to the station.

    They were twenty minutes early. She had bought the tickets, but Conor refused to sit with her and Donal in the heated waiting room, he wanted to cross over the iron bridge and wave to them from the other side; he wanted to walk down to the signal box. Again and again, he came back to ask when the train would arrive until a man told him to watch the signal arm between the platform and the tunnel, and when it dropped, it would mean that the train was coming.

    But we know it’s coming, Conor said impatiently.

    It’ll drop when the train is in the tunnel, the man said.

    If you were in the tunnel and the train came, you’d be mincemeat, Conor said.

    Begoboman, you’d be found in little bits all right. And, you know something, all the cups and saucers rattle in the houses when the train goes under, the man said.

    They don’t rattle in our house.

    That’s because the train doesn’t go under your house.

    How do you know? Conor said.

    Oh, I know your mammy well.

    Nora recognised the man, as she did so many others in the town; she thought that he worked in Donoghue’s garage, but she was not

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